


Lausanne

by scheherazade



Category: Tennis RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-02-20
Updated: 2009-02-20
Packaged: 2017-10-14 20:50:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/153331
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scheherazade/pseuds/scheherazade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He has a dozen roses delivered for Mirka on Valentine's Day, and kisses her cheek on his way out the door.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lausanne

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the 2009 allez_federinka [pic prompt challenge](http://community.livejournal.com/allez_federinka/40615.html) (prompt group #3).

_New Message:_

_Meet me in Lausanne. 17:00 Saturday._

_8:40 10-Feb-09_

-

He has a dozen roses delivered for Mirka on Valentine's Day, and kisses her cheek on his way out the door. She squeezes his hand in return, her eyes still sleepy this early in the morning, and there is a small smile on her lips as she murmurs, "Be careful."

Roger smiles back, tugging the brim of his plain cap a bit lower. "I'll see you in two days."

The sun has barely begun to rise as he steps out onto the street, where a taxi waits to take him to the airport. It is a ten-hour flight to Geneva. He naps lightly on the plane, the seat beside him empty, the backpack on his knees the only luggage he brings for this trip, and the time passes quickly enough.

By comparison, the train ride from Geneva to Lausanne seems to take forever. He spends the time fidgeting, patting the side pocket of his backpack every few minutes, reassuring himself that a small, palm-sized box is still there.

Stan is waiting outside the train station in Lausanne, sitting in the driver's seat of a nondescript rental car. Silent smiles are the only greetings exchanged, and they drive until they reach the outskirts of the city before pulling over on small, dead-end street.

They reach for each other, almost before the car has come to a full stop, the engine idling and neither particularly caring about the environment at that moment. Roger's cap is knocked to the floor as Stan kisses him, and he kisses back, mouth open and impatient and unwilling to let go.

They draw back, finally, more out of a necessity to breathe than anything else. Roger rests his forehead against Stan's, running his fingers through Stan's short hair. Stan closes his eyes and sighs quietly.

"Where are we going?" he asks.

Roger swallows the urge to say, _I don't know_ , and replies, "Montreux. I booked a hotel room."

"You know the way?"

"I think so."

They avoid the highway, instead following the lake east and south. The water is a perfect, windswept blue, mirroring a distant sky that not even the snow-capped mountains can reach.

It's so beautiful here, Roger thinks, the kind of place where you can get lost and never want to find your way again.

The sun is nearing the western horizon by the time they reach the lakefront hotel in Montreux. Roger waits in the car, fiddling with his cap, while Stan goes inside to check them in.

He returns soon enough, hands Roger a keycard and says, "Second floor. I'll take the stairs."

Three minutes later, the suite door is closed behind them, and Roger's arms are locked around Stan, their breaths mingling, palms pressed against warm skin. The bedsheets are soft, smelling faintly of sandalwood, and Stan tastes like the sunset on the bedroom walls.

Daylight fades, and the night sky is black and littered with stars before they remember anything apart from each other.

"Are you hungry?" Roger asks into the drowsy silence, his fingers memorizing the contours of Stan's face in the dark.

Stan hums an inaudible reply, covering Roger's hand with his own. Their fingers lace together, and Roger suddenly remembers that small, velvet-covered box.

He should say something about it, right now. He knows he should. But instead, he hears himself saying, "Should I go call room service?"

"No." Stan presses a kiss into Roger's palm, his breath warm against Roger's skin. "Not yet."

"We should get up."

"Just a bit longer," Stan says, and Roger hears, _Don't leave_.

His throat contracts painfully, and he can't say the words, though he knows it might well be now or never.

Maybe tomorrow, he tells himself for the thousandth time. Maybe tomorrow.

"I'll stay as long as you want," he whispers out loud, thumb brushing against Stan's lips, and it is a long time before they are able to untangle themselves from each other.

-

"I'm going to withdraw from Dubai," he says over a late dinner.

Stan pauses, then slowly lowers the forkful of salad back to his plate. "Withdraw? Why?"

"My back's been giving me problems. I need more time, to make sure I'll be all right for the rest of the season."

"Oh." Stan worries at a lettuce leaf on his plate, shredding it with short, sharp movements. "...and the Davis Cup?"

Roger doesn't meet his eyes. "I can't risk it. I need more time to fully rehabilitate that injury."

"I see."

"I'm sorry."

Stan shakes his head. "It's fine. You have to take care of yourself, first and foremost. Right?" It's phrased like a question, but Roger winces inwardly, the statement falling on his ears like the sound of damnation.

"I'm sorry," he says again, uselessly. "I just... I just thought you should know. I still want to play doubles with you."

"I know." Stan's voice is soft. "And we will. There will be more opportunities in the future."

But not like this, Roger thinks, and the pain in his chest is almost physical. Never again like this. The words fall from his lips before he even realizes what it is he's saying:

"I love you."

Stan looks up then, and the small, sad smile on his lips is mirrored in Roger's expression as their eyes meet.

"I know," he says again, and despite everything, there is still something in his gaze that speaks of hope.

-

They talk until the small hours of the morning, until words fade and all that's left is physical contact as they drift into sleep, side by side.

He wakes with pale sunlight in his eyes, and his head swimming in fragments of words and dreams. Stan's head is resting against the crook of his shoulder, breath tickling his neck.

Through the window, Roger can see mist clinging to the branches silhouetted against the glass. Perfect weather for losing your way, he thinks. But the sun will lay reality clear soon enough, and not even dreams will linger long after that.

He pulls Stan closer, kisses him softly and watches as he draws in a deep, waking breath, eyes fluttering open, a slow smile stretching across his lips.

"Good morning."

"Good morning," Roger echoes, brushing his lips across Stan's tufted hair. "Sleep well?"

Stan hums his assent. "What time is it?" he asks after a moment.

Roger closes his eyes, trying to block out the sunlight. "Still early."

"When's your flight?"

"Late afternoon."

"Oh." Stan wraps his arms around Roger's chest, and breathes, "Good."

Roger lets out a quiet sigh, relaxing against Stan as silence falls to cover them both once more. He dozes in the warmth of Stan's arms, and lets splintered half-dreams slip through his mind.

He sees Lake Geneva at dusk, lights edging the shore, the waters dark and majestic under a velvet sky. He sees the lake at dawn, covered in mist that rolls toward the windows of this hotel. He sees the color of a Dubai morning. He sees Mirka walking along the hallway, slippers passing by a rack of neatly arranged shoes. He sees two pairs of sneakers, one laced black, the other white, tossed carelessly by the door of a hotel room.

He sees Martina Navratilova walking off a nondescript court, pausing to notice a small girl and her father. He sees that same girl holding a tennis racquet, years later, her hands carrying the love and hope that would be passed to him―if only he doesn't turn away from those shoes, tossed together by the door.

He sees Stan―he feels Stan, hears Stan murmuring, "Where do we go from here, Roger?"

When he opens his eyes, Stan has fallen asleep again.

Hunger wakens them both, finally, as morning wears on toward noon. They shower, pick up their things and decide to venture outside for breakfast. Roger shoulders his backpack carefully, and tries not to stare too hard at his black-laced shoes.

They buy pastries from a small coffeeshop, but Roger feels restless, so Stan drives on until they finally find a parking place overlooking the lake, far from the busy streets and tourist shops.

Everything looks different in the morning, Roger thinks as he sips his coffee, though he knows logically that nothing has changed. Same place, same people―but the street signs are sharp-edged and clear in the sunlight, and even the sky has been swept clear of clouds.

"When should we head back to Lausanne?" Stan asks after they have finished eating.

"Soon," says Roger.

Stan doesn't ask if Roger knows the way back, just turns on the ignition, and drives. The trip passes in a blur of highway and scenery, and they are at the Lausanne train station once again.

Silence hangs above them, until Roger opens his mouth to say, "Stan―"

But Stan cuts him off, hands bracketing his face and kissing him deeply, lingering. "It doesn't matter," he breathes against Roger's lips. "I'll see you soon, right?"

Roger doesn't trust himself to say anything, so he just nods, and Stan smiles and lets him go.

He feels as though he is walking through a dream, waking only when he steps off the plane and into the terminal at Dubai and finds Mirka waiting for him by the luggage area. But there is no luggage to reclaim, only his backpack, as heavy as it was yesterday, its burden unrelieved.

"You didn't have to come," he tells her, and his voice sounds strange after hours of disuse.

Mirka just smiles softly, "I know. It's okay." She says nothing more, as if she already knows everything. Perhaps she does.

They take a taxi home, and the traffic is bad, but it's nothing compared to the long flight from Geneva. Dusk settles slowly on the streets, and it's dark by the time they finally walk through the apartment door.

The first thing Roger notices are the roses on the table, wilting in an ornate glass vase.

"I'm sorry," he says suddenly, and he's not entirely sure what he means by that, nor whom the words are even meant for.

But Mirka follows his gaze, and her hand finds his again, squeezing gently, as if she would take away all the unshed tears, all the scars that beauty leaves behind.

"It's all right," she says. "It will be all right."


End file.
